


Unfolding

by Ysmiyr



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fix It Fic, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Listen my baby deserves an apology, M/M, Magic Fuckery, Not a Deathfic, Self-Indulgent, Short & Sweet, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, im making this up as i go and im writing this at two am, non canon compilant after the dragon episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysmiyr/pseuds/Ysmiyr
Summary: Jaskier doesn't want to, but he leaves. This is how Geralt gets him back.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 75
Kudos: 676





	1. Indigo Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hello. It's been a while since i last wrote fanfic. I don't know if i still know how to do it, but i have been suffering these two idiots for YEARS, and now that more people are jumping in this pit with me i figured i might as well get fully involved.  
> So yeah, my own two cents into the "fix it fic" of Geralt fucking saying he's sorry and a little something else bc why not.  
> I'm not a native english speaker, so if you see any mistakes please feel free to warn me!!

Let it be known that despite it all, Jaskier was not a coward.

Maybe in the common sense of the word, some would call him that. But none was braver in the matters of the heart than he.

It is truer still that some would call this “bravery” as stupidity, but Jaskier knew his strength was in how much he could feel, how much he could see people for what they truly were, and accept anything he saw inside. The theatrics of romance, of love were ones he was not only very well versed in, but also took great joy into partaking. At the same time, the theatrics of heroism and great feats also held his unwavering attention, as not much else did.

And what was Geralt of Rivia, if not both of those things wrapped up in a ridiculously attractive face fit for a king? Jaskier knew himself, and knew he was in deep the moment he saw the white head at the corner of the inn. He just didn’t know how much deeper “in deep” was until the dragon quest.

"You don't like her, do you?" Borch asked Jaskier, leaning against the tent pole beside him, on the second night they stopped to rest on the path up the mountain.

"Who? Téa? Well, while it is true she doesn't seem to be amused by my magnificent ballads I-" Borch interrupted him with a calm voice and strange smile.

"You are a very transparent man, bard." Jakier stopped fiddling with the lute and looked at the shorter man with a slack mouth. Borch continued to stare at him, calm and enigmatic. The bard felt like a rope was being wrapped around his neck when thinking of lying to the man.

"That obvious, huh." He whispered. "Well. It's not one of my proudest moments, I admit." At the other side of camp, Geralt and the dwarves were playing cards and drinking for a while now. The witcher, for once, didn't seem to be paying attention to Yennefer, or anything besides the game for now. "But I think it's only human of my part to feel squashed by that level of power and beauty. I know when I have been outmatched, despite what everyone else seems to think."

"Oh you are smart alright." Borch patted his arm, laughing softly. "Even if who you choose to give your heart to is a bit... brutish." And here his voice took to a deeper, resonating sound that rattled inside Jaskier skull "Don't despair, bard. Fate is unstoppable, but it doesn't have only one way of unfolding." And as if that was just a comment about the weather, Borch downed the rest of his drink and walked away. Jaskier looked to the spot where the man was a second ago as if it could provide if not answers, then at least comfort him against the chill that settled in his chest like the roots of a tree.

–--

“Right. I'll just... Get the story from the others then." Jaskier took a very controlled breath in, and held for a couple seconds. He couldn't feel his legs."I'll see you around Geralt." And he knew this wasn't a “See you soon”, it was a “Farewell”. And he knew his heart would never be the same again, for it lay there on the swoop of that cliff face, looking at the dying sun in contempt, questioning itself over the suicidal urge of having given itself to a witcher besotted to a terrifying sorceress.

He walked to camp, picked up his bag and went back to the trail without thinking where he was supposed to be going. He passed Yennefer and the dwarves without acknowledging them, walking along as if in a trance, breath so carefully controlled that it could only be forced. None of them noticed him pass.

He held his head forward against everything he ever stood for. He kept walking, and didn't look back.

\----

The towns blurred together, and he performed well enough. He didn't need the money, not really, seeing as he found in his bag a very heavy coin purse with a yellow shield and three jackdaws embroided on it. But singing was all he knew, all he could give to the world right now, and so he performed. He even composed a few new ones, and every crowd ate it up like the first full meal after a hard winter that stretched for too long.

The tavern was small, cramped and hot but all Jaskier could feel was cold. Cold on his limbs, cold on the pounding of his head, cold in the words that exited his mouth but did not come from anywhere else but his mouth. His heart wasn't in it, but no one noticed.

" _His voice carried in the wind, All the way back to the land where, In slumber you could get pinned"_ It was unfinished, and he wasn’t really sure why he was singing this one; the one he wrote on feverish agony four hours ago in the dim light the moon gave off trough the trees. It didn't make sense to him, the metric, or the lyrics, but it hadn't felt right to change them, either. " _By thy hearts share, of human torture_." It ended with a distinct note of something missing, but these simple people from this microscopic village in Grayrocks West wouldn’t notice. They applauded with teary enthusiasm and while his pouch didn't fill, his table did, with a promise of a bed all to himself even.

Jaskier felt very far away from he congratulatory pats on his back.

–--

A month became two, then three, then a year passed by and Jaskier had to sit down and take a couple of deep breaths when re realized that. A year passed, and Geralt hadn't looked for him. A year passed, and Jaskier had held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, the witcher didn't meant it. That maybe they could talk it out.

He hadn't even heard of him.

Somewhere between the first month and the fifth, Jaskier started to consider that Geralt had stayed away, that he had _meant_ those things he said for a reason. Perhaps Jaskier did all those things. Perhaps he _was_ guilty of all he was accused of. After that, it went downhill. More than it already was, that is.

Despite being an incorrigible romantic, Jaskier didn't actually believe in soulmates, nor did he put much weight into Destiny’s judgment. But now he could feel deep in his marrow a rope pulled taught every time he thought about Geralt. A rope under spectacular distress, that had unraveled and lost color and the only thing connecting it still was a very thin string that seemed to scream and beg for respite. Sometimes, if he was tired enough, or drunk enough, he thought he could _see_ it. He felt more and more tired the more that shiny indigo rope lost its luster and lost its resistance.

He missed the adventures and he even missed the life on the road, sleeping under the stars and waking with the day first light's kiss. But most of all he missed Geralt's silent smiles, his dry humor and even his constant annoyed expression. Truth be told he missed Roach too, her twinkly and knowing eyes. He regretted not saying goodbye to her.

\---

The Kingfisher was probably the biggest inn Jaskier had performed. Ever. Maybe the biggest place, period, if you didn't consider Cintra's Palace. He very much liked to pretend that night never happened.

When he found himself in Novigrad's gates he couldn't even remember how he got there. And he also couldn't remember how he ended up on a stool in the Kingfisher with so many patrons -wealthy and important ones too- almost groveling to hear his ballads.

In other times, he would be having the time of his life. This right here was all he ever wanted.

But the success tasted bitter in the back of his throat, for he would never have gotten here if not for his recounts of Geralt's feats. It felt like treason, to still use them after what happened, but they were his sole comfort, and then his only source of income. His repertoire expanded quite a bit regardless, but he didn't love any of the songs he composed in the meantime. People loved them, the generic things they were.

Jaskier never wanted to be a generic bard.

But it seemed he didn't have much of a choice, for his songs about nameless maids and nonexistent knights outnumbered the few he actually loved, the ones about Geralt, about golden dragons and werewolves, cursed princesses and tyrant kings overthrown. And a man needed food, even if he wasn’t sure what kept him going anymore.

He played his part, he smiled his best smile, he even talked a bit to the nobles who approached him, but inside he felt like an outsider looking in. A distant voice inside his head seemed annoyed by his apathy, but he couldn't listen to it clearly.

The night was far from ending, but Jaskier frankly couldn't handle so much noise anymore. Having spent the better part of a year either away from people or with large gaps in between meetings, the crowd overwhelmed him. It was better than the lukewarm feeling of emptiness he was carrying around, but it was still too much for now.

He quietly slipped away from his perch on the table, the drunkards creating a sweet distraction with their loud screams and promises of castration, and ran up the stairs to the room he had been given for as long as he wanted to perform there.

As soon as he locked the door his shoulders dropped, relieved but not completely and leaned his forehead against a wall.

A minute passed with him frozen and glued to the wall. He felt like crying, and he didn't know why. He felt relieved, but agonizing in the corners of his own head, like when your feet got caught on the foot of the bed when you were trying to help your mother move it and it was _painful, damn it_ , but somehow taking he heavy wood from his feet provided a very brief relief and then carried on being a pulsating pain.

Jaskier tried to breathe controlled, moving slowly as if he moved faster could trigger a panic attack on himself.

And he was right.

Only, it wasn't him moving fast or slow that pushed him on the edge; It was the hulking figure he saw on the corner of his eye, leaning against the window, silent and unmoving. Yellow eyes burned a hole through his chest, warmth radiating like a blooming flower from within, as it long hadn't done.

Jaskier stood inert, still half turned towards the door, unable to blink. He could feel the heat quickly spreading through his arms and legs like a warm bath after a too cold night's ride, leaving a tingly feeling behind that felt like static looked.

The heat was rushing past his ears now, deafening in its intensity, and Jaskier felt as if he couldn't pull enough air into his lungs. His back hit the ground before he was able to blink again.

He didn't wake again for a long time.


	2. Mulberry Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, what the fuck i wasnt expecting so much feedback aaaaaaaaaaa  
> That is to say, thank you. Hopeyou guys keep finding this wild ride entretaining
> 
> Also it's worth mentioning: i think the show was great. Really, i do. But they did us so dirty with how Geralt treats Jaskier.  
> He adores the bard in the books and frankly shouts from the rooftops that they are friends, so i wanted to change that. Geralt is a sofie, no one can convince me otherwise.
> 
> Also formatting this is so fucking difficult, im sorry if it comes out weird im trying to get it

He was warm.

He was warm and it wasn't the warmth of overwhelmed senses, it wasn't the warmth form anger or shame. It was soothing, calming, and for a split second he remembered of being a child, wrapped up in as many layers as his mother could smother him in against the chill of the morning.

Opening his eyes was a slow process, as if they had glued together after a very good afternoon nap, when you wake up heavy-limbed and disoriented. The ceiling that greeted him was illuminated by streaks of orange and candy apple red, the beams casting overlapping shadows that if looked closely could almost resemble woodland animals.

There was, towards what Jaskier thought was a door, a great many noises coming from it, but muffled as if the noise itself feared disturbing the peace inside the room.

"Jaskier?" Came from his right, his name murmured in a raspy voice. He thought that there was something very comforting about it. "Are you awake?" and that voice kept going, murmuring as if speaking louder would break him. Jaskier turned his head a bit, his movements still languid.

He blinked.

Geralt was still there, sitting in a too-small chair with his hair falling disheveled around his distressed face.

He blinked and held his eyes closed for a moment before opening them again.

Nothing changed.

Jaskier stared at the man beside him, still as a statue. Inside his head, for the first time in a long while, there was silence. Not the numbness that came from crying yourself to sleep, but the silence that only deep meditation could bring. Geralt's yellow eyes burned just as bright and intense as they always did, and they did not left Jaskier's face.

"Do you know where you are?" The witcher tried after a while of not getting an answer. He seemed one hair's breath away from jumping on the bed and shaking the bard until he got some kind of response.

Jaskier slowly sat up, back against the headboard, not taking his eyes off the witcher. He wrangled his hands together as if to reassure himself he was awake, alive and present. They were shaking.

"At an inn" And Jaskier's voice was low, shaky and almost not there at all. His head was silent, but clear, and he didn't suddenly have a bout of memory loss. He knew his voice was fine until he passed out. He looked around the room quickly, noting only Geralt's armor thrown on the corner table and his swords near the door, where he dropped his lute.

Afraid of what might have happened, Jaskier looked back at the witcher, pointing to his throat. Geralt's face was a very confusing mix of quickly changing emotions, so Jaskier didn't even tried to decipher them.

"You were asleep for a week." he offered, his voice still oddly gentle. "No lasting damage, you just need to get used to talking again." Geralt got up, crossed to the other side of the room and back with barely five steps, carrying a mug filled to the brim. He offered it to the bard to take, his medallion clinking like bells against the buttons of his shirt. Jaskier just looked at him and the mug, eyes uncertain. The witcher pressed his lips in a very thin line before speaking,

"Water. The inkeep brought it up, along with food." Jaskier accepted the mug then, drinking it all in one gulp but still keeping the witcher within his sight.

After the water was gone, they stood in place like animals playing dead. Geralt didn't move an inch from his position at the foot of the bed.

"What happened?" Jaskier let out in a single breath, tone weak. He put the mug aside, swinging his legs out of the bed and advancing in the witcher's direction, trying to force his speech to sound firm. "Why are you here?" It was almost pleading, if not by the urgency of this tone. Geralt looked down, hands closed around the post of the bed.

"I think you should si-"

"Answer me!" Jaskier forced out, a sharp, needle-like pain emerging from his neck. It wasn't a shouted command, and Geralt didn't think Jaskier would have screamed even if his voice wasn't compromised.

"I came to apologize." Jaskier's eyebrows promptly shot up near his hairline. "It's true" Geralt said, looking at him again, eyes earnest.

"Apologize. For what?" It couldn't possibly be because of...

"The things I said to you on the mountain. I didn't me-"

"That was a _year_ ago." Jaskier gritted out. "And _now_ you come to.... _apologize?"_

"You were gone!" The witcher let go of the bed and rounded on the bard, taking him by the shoulders "Not even Yennefer could find you. No taverns spoke your name, not one single villager had seen you."

"I was in every tavern from that blasted mountain all the way to here! Everyone already expected me to pass trough." He whispered loudly, and honestly that was the best he could do. "And aren't you one of the very best trackers around? To hell you couldn't find me. _You just didn't want to."_ He broke free from the grip the very warm and very large hands had on him, pointing a trembling finger up on Geralt's nose. " So I ask again, _why are you here?"_

The witcher looked as if he ate a fish too fast and forgot to take out the spine.

"That's the truth. I regretted what I said the moment I said it, Jaskier. But when I stopped by the inn at the foot of the mountain you were gone, and there was no traces left. Yennefer said magic was obscuring her, and there was no way of knowing what type of fuck-all you got to hide yourself, only that she couldn’t break it." That was probably the most Jaskier ever heard Geralt speak. He cranked up his neck to look the witcher in the eye, and if he didn't know any better he would say they looked haunted.

"I don't believe you." He mumbled. "You made it clear how much you wanted me gone. You never even _liked_ me tagging along." Geralt shook his head, frantic.

"I was pissed at myself and let it out on you! I didn't mean that, any of it." He paused to take a deep breath. "Please, listen to me." And that was the first time Jaskier ever heard _that._

 _"_ Why would you say such cruel things if you truly didn't mean any of them? Those things...Those things only come out after a long time keeping them, witcher." At the title, Geralt visibly flinched as if he was hit in the face with a brick.

"Truth is..." Geralt seemed to be loosing himself in the agony of being scandalously honest. "I was terrified of the day you would leave. You couldn't travel with me forever, the path isn't a place for the likes of you. But I got used to it so fast..." Jaskier was shocked into silence. Geralt was looking at the fireplace, his entire body rigid, arms glued to his sides. "I...Didn't want to be riding by myself again. But you would leave."

"And so you made me leave before I could leave you." Jaskier whispered, awed. Geralt refused to look at him, but did give him a curt nod. "That wasn't... very mature of you." He couldn’t help but say, no malice in his tone. The witcher made a resigned face.

"Not all of us are so emotionally skilled." Breathing in the rhythm of someone psyching themselves up, Geralt looked at Jaskier straight on, "I am sorry. For what I said. And for being selfish." And it was the way he delivered it, almost like a kid reading the excuses his mother had said he should give, that made the bard smile. It was teary and unsteady, but it was sincere.

"So you _do_ want me around, then." Geralt paused for a moment trying to decide if the bard was having him on, and then offered a tiny smile of his own.

"More than you know."

\----

It was getting clear again outside and Jaskier had eaten enough for two redanian legions when Geralt asked in a quiet voice,

"So what did you get to stay hidden?"

"I told you, I wasn't hiding." Jaskier said, getting up from his upside down perch on the bed "I didn't do anything other than wander from inn to inn." Geralt hummed, not convinced, putting his feet up on the table.

"Then _someone_ wanted you out of sight. Did you buy any new clothes?" A beat passed, and then Jaskier was launching himself cross the room to his bag, where a small yellow pouch of the softest leather was resting.

"Borch left me this." He held it up, brow furrowed. "I saw it when I was at the first inn; it was full of coin. Do you think this is magic?" Geralt extended a hand and Jaskier did a little stupid run back to him immediately.

"Hmm. It _is_. But doesn't reek of... malicious magic." The witcher said, turning it in his hands. "It feels light on energy, so whatever it is can't have been what caused the interference."

"Oh." Jaskier says with hope, a fond smile appearing in his face. "Do you think is more of a protection thing then? Or a token of friendship, even?" Geralt snorts, turning his face as if to hide it.

"You would like that, wouldn't you." He shook his head when Jaskier's face went slightly pink. "It probably is. I don't imagine we have to be too worried about it."

"But we do have to be worried?" Jaskier asked, trying to grab at the witcher's logic. Geralt nodded again,

"Something happened, Jaskier. Or I would have found you sooner. As you said, I _am_ the best tracker around." It was supposed to be a jest, but his words left a bittersweet tang in the air. He and the bard stared at each other for a moment.

"And it can wait?" Geralt smiled then, not turning completely to hide it. The warmth it lended to his face was absolutely something Jaskier would wax poetic about, even if just to his own mind.

"And it can wait."


	3. Shamrock Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> It took a bit longer but i think i have this outlined by now. I count that as an absolute win, pals.  
> i think it's better i make some points before it gets confusing: while i did pick up a scene form the series to start this fic off, i will be following more the book's and games canon, but you don't need to have previous knowledge of that to understand anything. (Besides the one and only fact that Geralt IS sort of a chatterbox in the books and also an even bigger dramatic. Also he really loves is friends.) Be warned though, that you might see spoilers in all chapters from now on, even if just mild ones.  
> Also, mentioned in the last chapter that using "-" instead of commas (?) is confusing so i changed in this one. Please tell me what you guys think is easier to read in!  
> And as i have said, english isn't my first language so if there is any mistakes please let me know!

They stayed a week more at the inn. Every night while Geralt made coin playing cards, Jaskier played his lute and his smile played the patrons. He played like he hadn't done for years, not since he first left Oxenfurt with his degree, wet behind the ears and excited to meet the world. He laughed, winked, jumped up on the tables, pulled many of the inn's clientele along with him. The place was abuzz with the excitement, colored with all the cheery chaos of relaxed people drunk on good music and good ale. The spring in his step didn't seem to get tired, and his smile didn't waver even once as he did what he was born to do.

By the corner of his eye Jaskier kept tabs on the witcher; he could see Geralt leaning against the guard-rails of the second floor, clapping along with his hair falling loose. Maybe wishing Geralt was down here with everyone else was a bit much, and while Jaskier couldn't quell the yearning of witnessing such a thing, the fact he man was watching him was enough for now. There were few things the bard liked more than attention after all.

Jaskier was high on the crowd's applause, accumulating from four days already and he felt like it was only decent of him to trow in some new songs too, songs no one heard of, that did not talk about adventures and mud-stained victories but engaged the entire inn anyway. No one had noticed something amiss with the bard before, but the performance he delivered the last day they were in town would be talked about for a long time to come.

\---

It was nearing morning when the patrons couldn't hold themselves up anymore and Jaskier's voice was getting steadily raspier. Everything was sore, his very bones ached, but it was the kind of tired that only made him ecstatic, energetic and while the crash from this was violent – with him sleeping for three days at the worst- it was so, _so_ worth it.

The bard took the stairs two at a time, eyes carrying a crazed tinge as if he could vibrate right out of his skin. Geralt waited for him right where he stayed the entire night and offered an _honest to gods_ full blown smile at his sight.

“Had fun?” He asked, voice his usual gravelly tone with a tilt of hoarseness as if he, too, was singing along all night. The thought alone made Jaskier head spin. He leaned on a couch, thought better of it, and threw himself down sprawling like a noblewoman might for a painting.

“Oh and how! Can't really feel my legs though. Or my fingers. My throat is going to kill me.” He interrupted himself with a deep, contented sigh. “Performing without feeling just isn't the same.”

“Weren't you feeling it, before?” And this was new as well; Geralt making an effort to talk. Not nonsense blabber to fill the silence -curse the thought- but asking after his life, his tastes and even sometimes encouraging _emotional_ talk. Jaskier wanted to weep at the elation of having his best friend not only back and acknowledging his post but also working to it's upkeep.

But Geralt sometimes was too perceptive when he actually tried. “Oh; I mean every artist goes through dry spells. Not pleasant, lemme tell you.” He lied like the lying liar he was, straight at the ceiling and unable to keep it up looking at those piercing yellow eyes.

“Hmm” And even though the animalistic grunting didn't go away, even they seemed more comforting now. “You should rest. We have to leave before dinner.” Jaskier jumped up again, face flushed in shame and the thrill of going back to roaming the wide open world.

“Ooh, someone has plans. Where are we going?” Geralt tilted his head, indulgent.

“Somewhere you are going to _love.”_

\---

Toussaint was a beautiful in the way things were beautiful inside a bard's head. It was bright, colorful, filled to the brim with knights wanting to prove themselves with absurd feats of bravery and courage, marked by magnificent feasts at the palace that was a very impressive and well preserved part of elven history. Everything in it nodded at fairy tales, happy endings; thrilling romantic escapades but also long lasting loves that could inspire thousands of ballads and the envy of maidens longing for such adventure.

Jaskier loved it the second he saw the sun peaking over the mountains illuminating the cobbled pathways.

He loved it with his entire being, his heart on his sleeves and his eyes burning with the intensity of the amber-orange rays of the setting sun and he had the urge to kneel on the stone path and cry for there was never a sight so breathtakingly beautiful as this and it would feel like disrespect for mother nature's spectacular creation to just keep on walking.

“Oh, Geralt what _is_ this place? How does it stand here, forgotten by the north and the war, the most beautiful rose of the gardens of creation?” Jaskier cried atop his (own) horse, voice heavy with emotion.

The witcher stopped Roach and looked at the bard with amusement painted on his face. At the top of the small hill they where in they could see all Beauclair in the distance; it's windows reflecting the shine of the sun with glee. The smell of flowers, food and wine accompanied them and a haze settled over the land; a haze of happiness and a life worth living. 

“Are you going to cry?” The witcher prodded, but his voice was low and soft. Proud of himself for nailing on the head what he set out to do but stunned at having received a gift all to himself.

“ _Aren't you?”_ Jaskier hissed, pulling the lute from his back and urging Gardenia forwards with his legs, making up a rhyme on the spot. Geralt had to admit that the sight of the city backed with the bard's music would be one of those things that burned into his memory with the intensity of a thousand hunts.

\---

Despite all it's splendor, Beauclair was a city like any other, Jaskier learned.

Well, mostly any other.

It had the same problems of courtly intrigue, corrupt guards, black markets and shady operations going on, but even that had a different taste when you weren't soaked to the bone with a rain that didn't stop for four days and had a belly always full -and of good food! And there were no swamps here, which was also a very good point. The days were warm and pleasant and the nights were bland.

But for all of that there was a bit of a problem. A very real, very dangerous problem.

Beauclair was the cradle of all the vampires that were worth their blood. Higher, lesser, entire covens, thralls and familiars. It was infested with the beasts as much as a pen was with flies.

“And how exactly are we to know who _is_ a higher vampire then?” He asked Geralt, strolling through the city streets in their way to the higher district.

“When it tries to bite your face off.” They take a left in the corner of a blue house where it didn't seem to exist any passage. “Safe to assume every high raking individual you meet here is one. Not the duchess, though.”

“And what are we doing here, then? _Please_ don't tell me someone hired you for one of them.”

“Only desperate witchers accept to face on a higher vampire. Even ekimmaras and fleders are a no go, if you can help it.” The warm evening sun put Geralt's white hair and fair complexion -clean, for once- in a stark contrast against all the color around them but it isn't painful to look at it now like it was in the midday sun. Still, Jaskier thought it was just as painful to look at Geralt this close and not touch him.

“Then what?” Geralt seemed jittery. He pointed to a wooden door crammed between two buildings like it wasn't supposed to be there.

“I, uh. Want you to meet someone.” Jaskier's eyes would have fallen off his face if he hadn't them glued to it.

“Oh Gods, do you still _have_ family left?” Geralt's hand paused against the door, shocked. Then, he smiled a very small, private and somehow vulnerable smile,

“Of a sort. Get in.” The push he levered to Jaskier's back wasn't strong, but the bard was so very disconcerted that his body felt and acted like jelly.

On the other side of the door a scene straight out of his ballads welcomed him.

There were other four doors visible, walls covered almost completely with he greenest of all ivy's. There was a fountain in the far wall, marble-like and intricately carved. In the middle was a round table, candles alight and full of plenty of food and wine. There were also chests and bookcases, some odd trinkets and other tables littered with all manner of medical paraphernalia.

Near the door, clearly waiting for them was standing a man with hands behind his back. He wore bluish-grey robes, too muted for the vibrancy of the city. From his belts hang vials and pouches and even a book. His hair had a very dramatic hairline and a salt'n pepper color that strangely matched him. His face was relaxed in an unassuming smile that didn't exactly put Jaskier at ease; something about him seemed off.

The door closed softly behind him. Geralt passed Jaskier and went straight into the other man's embrace.

“It's so good to see you again.” The mystery man craked a very big close-mouthed smile. Jaskier felt the unease climb steps behind his sternum.

“And you, Geralt. It's been too long.” They parted and Geralt turned on Jaskier. The man's voice was unsettling and calming, it wriggled at something behind the bards' eyes but also made him want to sit down and listen to the man read him a poem.

Jaskier stood, not quite paralyzed, but unwilling to move. No one said anything for a while and the tension and the unease climbed the metaphorical steps in a growing frenzy. The man didn't take his eyes off of him and it felt like he couldn't breathe. Geralt looked between them, clearly aware something was going on but deciding to keep quiet and wait.

The strain rose like smoke from a good campfire does, and with that the last rays of sun died out. The man moved then, a more genuine smile on his face this time and with his movement the ambient changed like a river's reflection; Suddenly, all the pressure building snapped without a sound and Jaskier was left feeling disoriented, a bit mad at Geralt and short on breath.

The air was warm and calm, the birds still chirped somewhere far away. The man offered his glove-covered hand.

“Pleasure to meet you. Geralt told me a great deal about you, Master Bard.” Jaskier spluttered, coming out of is trance like a spooked cat. On reflex, he took the offered hand, head reeling from all the adrenalin and, truth be told, from his stroked pride at being called a _master_ bard.

“But I am afraid I do not know you. Geralt isn't very good at... briefing.” Then the man laughed and let go of his hand, gesturing to the table.

“Well, this _was_ supposed to be a surprise.” Geralt snorted, going in to find himself a spot on the very plush green chairs.

“You did scare him half to death though.” The witcher pointed, amused. “Jaskier, this is Regis. One of my oldest friends and well. A vampire.”


	4. Saffron Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So someone asked me over on tumblr about the names of the chapters, and im a cliche like that folks. Its about the colors of the rainbow, and the color meaning sets the pace for the chapter. Idk where this even came from, but, here you have it.  
> Wrote this one with Geralt's point of view in mind, but im not sure how well that went. Im always a bit afraid of going trough his head, im never too good at translating him i think; but it felt right to do.  
> I think there is 2 more chapters to go and then its done!

Jaskier didn't have an ounce of self preservation in his bones.

That would be the most common assertion to be made after making his acquaintance, followed shortly by the realization that the lanky man could charm just about everyone with his words. And then, that his words seemed to be the controlling force behind him, not the other way around. Some people liked that; captive audience and whatnot. Geralt had hoped for a friendly meeting, but he did not -and by his own fault at that. Jaskier made so people either hated him or adored him- expect Regis to take a liking to the bard. Foolish, certainly, since there was little Regis liked more than to talk, to teach, explain, even more so to such an educated and interested listener.

Geralt had expected for a semblance of hesitancy from Jaskier since, _vampires,_ but that was on him too. That man probably had the most balls out of every human he knew, for he didn't fear neither himself nor Regis, a very old and very powerful vampire. It could also be that the bard had no clue just in how much danger he could be in. But it was more likely that he wouldn't care even if he did know.

“It wasn't long before they came after the others, too. So we just made our way down the hill, up the road and never looked back.” Regis said with a flourish, a man of words as much as the bard. Jaskier was feverishly writing in his book, smiling and nodding along. Geralt felt oddly left out, but not in an unpleasant way. His head was heavy with wine, he was warm, safe as could ever be, and the chair was big and comfortable. The noise from Regis calm and paced voice was a very nice backdrop to his sort of out of reality state, and Jaskier's melodic, higher pitched one was just enough to keep him awake still.

“And you never saw what became of them?” Jaskier confirmed, finally looking up. Regis gave him a cryptic smile, his eyes dark,

“Oh, I didn't had to. News spread fast here in Toussaint. Even faster if they are violent, romantic, or both.” Geralt chuckled at that, lazily raising his glass in agreement.

“Yes, I gathered as much. Straight out of fairly tales, even the bad bits.” The bard said in a sullied tone, but his eyes were dancing with mirth. Geralt thought that he maybe should feel something at the flippant tone Jaskier had when talking about violence -worried, perhaps- but then again hadn't he _always_ been like that? If the bard _had been_ of a more delicate disposition, if he _had been_ put off by the dirt and the ugly he would have run off at the sight of the first monster. Hell, all the tryst with the elves would have been enough to send him packing. And yet.

_And yet, here we are._

Jaskier wasn't easily cowered. He didn't like pain, so he ran if he thought he would get hurt and could avoid it, like any other living creature. But if it became apparent he couldn't run away, that for whatever reason Geralt couldn't save him, he bared his teeth and his words and made sure to give as good as he got. Bravery, if Geralt was feeling poetic – and with the low candlelight hitting their faces, the smell of wine, and paper and ink and adventure surrounding them he had to admit that, yeah he was- and a certain disregard for life that could just as easily be Jaskier showing how much he liked to live made him not only interesting, and endlessly amusing, but also the ultimate travel companion. Sure, he could stand to learn a thing or two about handling a sword, but when the need arose anything near him became a potential weapon, even his prized lute.

“Well, that is one for the books” Jaskier said, clear blue eyes twinkling. Regis was way better at being still and patient but even him seemed a tad agitated. “I have material for _months_! Geralt is never so descriptive.” The vampire laughed, indulgent with a wicked curve to his smile,

“In his defense he was never the best with words, unless someone needed a dressing down. Then the most _inspiring things_ would tumble out.” Geralt made an effort to be present, feeling his time in stupor had come to a close.

“I am still here, you know.” He said, almost mumbling, while his body came out of the semi meditative space it had fallen into. Both the bard and the vampire looked at him then, attentive. Jaskier's eyes were clouded, but not with something bad. His smile had a very satisfied tint to it.

“I was certain you had fallen asleep.” Regis commented, rising up. “Alas, my friends, I have some matters to tend to before the sun rises again. Hope to see you both before you leave.” It was posed as a statement, but Regis waited for a nod from Geralt until he bowed his head, turned around and disappeared. Jaskier couldn't hear any of the doors opening. Neither did Geralt, but he knew better than to expect for one.

“Well that certainly was... An experience.” The bard beamed. Geralt raised his brows. “Oh, please. A vampire? As a long friend of a _witcher_? And that is also one of the _best_ stories I ever heard.” He closed the book, tucking it in his pack. Geralt felt there was something the bard wasn't saying, the feeling stuck on the underside of his arms all the way to the palms of his hands; hands that were stiff and felt alien to him.

“Come on, I'm tired and our room for once has an actual mattress bed.” He said instead, getting up and stretching. The night was warm, enough so that Jaskier had left his doublet at the inn, but not so warm one would be sweating doing nothing. It felt comforting, and the eventual breeze was colder, but not chilly. 

The stars were dotting the sky like pearls, and if it was any other person with him Geralt would feel pressed to not call attention at how... romantic it all was. He couldn't tell why it didn't bother him now.

\---

Geralt made their way down to the inn they were staying by the scenic route.

Jaskier was uncharacteristicly quieter, but not completely silent. He commented on every shop they passed, and pointed at the drawings on the walls and the stylized way the shop's plaques had their names painted on. It was normal flowery rambling, but he seemed rattled. Geralt didn't know how to ask what was wrong, he thought he managed a to plan a pretty decent evening for the bard, and he did seem to have liked it, but something was definitely out of place.

There wasn't any “littleness” about Jaskier, not in stature and certainly not in presence. He was rather skinny but saying that was the same as saying Geralt had white hair; it was just a fact. Yet here, walking down the street illuminated by lampposts and the stark shine of the full moon, dwarfed by the tall buildings and their loud decorations he looked half his size; like a child trying on his parent's clothing, but that had nothing adorable about it. He stopped walking and stared at the bard, trying hard to jumble up the right thing to say. Jaskier stopped a few steps ahead, looking back at him with a fading smile.

“Did you... Did I do something...?” Geralt pushed out, eyes fluttering to every place but always coming back to Jaskier's face. The bard frowned.

“No, of course not! I mean, you did, but it was a good thing! Just...” He cut himself off, sighing. Jaskier went to rest against the stone balustrade, shoulders slumped. Geralt followed, slower and wary. Had it been too little?

“I haven't. Did I tell you of- Listen.” He spoke as if his mind and his mouth had a direct line of contact and he wasn't actually sorting trough what came out.

“I'm trying.” Geralt quipped, suddenly aware of a tension he did not know how to categorize enveloping them. Jaskier continued as if he hadn't said anything.

“I am. A man of thirty years. As of today.” The way he said it was very unlike his usual self. Geralt started regretting everything he planned.

“... Happy birthday?” He offered, unsure what else he missed.

“Did you know that before I said it, Geralt?” He whispered, urgent. “Why are we here?” He pulled himself up to his full height with what appeared to be great effort. He looked at the witcher unwavering but holding a certain fragility in the corners of his mouth and the crease of his forehead. Geralt exhaled forcefully, terribly embarrassed -and he didn't even properly knew _why_ \- and feeling short of breath even though he _hadn't_ drank that much.

“You talk when you sleep. I wasn't sure if the date was right, but it seemed... important to you.” He shrugged. “I didn't know what to get you, but I thought you might like it here. And someone that could satisfy all your questions. With all the details.” Jaskier was silent and expressionless. Geralt felt the saliva in his mouth taste like ash and dirt.

Neither said anything for a while, and then Jaskier barked out a laugh, uncontrolled and openly hysteric. Geralt almost felt offended if not for the tears he saw gathered at the corners of the bard's eyes.

“You brought me here on a whim that maybe, _maybe_ , I would like the place? You introduced me to a man that is as good as family to you just because he could what, _tell better stories_?” He wheezed out, eyes so clear they didn't look blue at all anymore. “You did this because it would be easier than to get me any silly trinket from the town's market?” He was baffled alright. Geralt crossed his arms almost as if hugging himself.

“I didn't wanted to just get you a... thing. You can have things on your own. But Regis doesn't go around telling people he is a vampire and by all I knew you somehow didn't know of this place.” Jaskier's jaw was definitely on the ground. One solitary tear made its way down his face, out of his left eye, so silent and precise it was almost beautiful.

“This is probably the most well thought and valuable present anyone ever gave me.” He said the words like a prayer, like they could hurt him if he said it louder. The witcher felt even more at a loss on what to do now.

“Your dreams. They aren't pleasant, when they are about this, are they?” He settled on, head pounding in synch with his heartbeat. Jaskier gave him a bittersweet smile.

“An understatement. It was never a good day.” He ran his long fingered hand over his face, sucking in a shuddering breath. “This. This probably is the best I ever had. Only one thing could make this more perfect.” Geralt would think later on what made him say it, but would not be able to pinpoint the reason,

“And what _do_ you want?”

Jaskier didn't say anything but hesitantly and oh so _so_ slowly, raised his arms in a way it was unmistakable. Geralt didn’t think, didn't stop to consider why he should be so willing, but he stepped forward, his own arms raised to match and he saw his surprise mirrored in Jaskier's expression before closing the distance all the way, his head resting comfortably on the bard's shoulder. Jaskier hid his face in the witcher's.

“Thank you, Geralt.” And it was probably the most sincere “thank you” the man ever heard.

They stood there for a long time, just holding each other and while Jaskier didn't cry, the witcher thought it was a sort of cleansing for him anyway.


	5. Apricot Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one got a bit away from me, but i think it's the first time i actually like the Geralt i wrote. Granted, the very malludin side of him in the books, but.  
> Thinking that i might write a filler afterwards for the last scene here, but im not too confident writing porn, so well see how that goes.  
> Only one more to go now, i think. Hope you guys enjoy!~

Things changed after Beauclair.

It was four months later, and they ended up in Redania for lack of better places to go. Jaskier's mood sullied the closer they inched away from the border with Temeria, and Geralt tried his best to pretend nothing was amiss. Jaskier's mood swings were common and rarely lasted an entire day, and he tried to convince himself that this one too, would pass.

But the week came to an end, and Jaskier alternated between forcibly cheerful, open anxiety and snapping anger. None of it seemed to be directed to Geralt, which made it a bit less suffocating, but the witcher still didn't like it. Regis had been of invaluable help, as always, when presented with the yellow leather pouch and while the idea only came to him on the way to Toussaint, Geralt felt bad having the information given to him by a chain of events that couldn’t in any circumstance be called chance.

They stop for rest in the fields, a ways away from the road. They are a four day's ride away from Crinfrid and one and a half from Varlburg. Geralt knows Crinfrid to be the last city he can visit, the northernmost point he is willing to step on before they make their way south again. He considers if he has to go that far; it isn't a big city, not even really a city, more of a glorified estate.

He doubts there is going to be work for him there, but there is also part of him that thinks he deserves the pain and the guilt that comes with begin so close to Blaviken. That this penitence of suffering must be paid at somewhat regular intervals, not unlike poking a bruise to stop it from healing completely.

He works on finding a particularly dense patch of grass for Roach to munch on, and goes to set up camp. Jaskier hasn't spoken since late morning, only muttering under his breath bitterly. Geralt half wants to ask, half is scared to. So he pretends he doesn't hear it, tosses the bedrolls to the bard and goes out to scavenge some sort of dinner.

\---

He returns with four rabbits and grapes.

The camp is, surprisingly, ready; the fire is going, there is a little pile of logs next to one of the bedrolls and Jaskier sits on the ground close to the fire and for once not even near his lute. The dark of night merges with his hair, and the fire makes his eyes look haunted. His hands tremble where he wrings them together in his lap, and his breathing is low but clearly irregular. Geralt pauses, and the only sounds are that of the bards breathing and unsteady heart, the blood of the rabbits pooling on the ground and the trees creaking with the wind.

Their water skins are sitting nearby, Jaskier clearly having filled them too. Roach snorts from where she is still eating as if sensing the thick atmosphere. Geralt swallows but doesn’t find saliva in his mouth.

“A rabbit for your thoughts?” He says, and it goes out rough and parched. It grates on his own ears.

“I take the grapes, thanks.” The bard says, but his eyes don't move from the fire. Geralt has seen how some sorcerers can use it to see glimpses of the future or to purge an illness. Jaskier stares at it with the same passionate intensity.

“Grapes are for talkers.” He tries to prob without making the man feel cornered, and if nothing else it makes Jaskier snort a little laugh.

“Why are we going north, Geralt?” His voice is tired but not monotone, never that. “Is there something specific we looking for?” He pries his eyes away from the fire for a moment, finds he can't see anything but bursts of orange light and turns back to it. The witcher takes it as the invite it is and sits down next to him to skin their dinner.

“Not really. Just seemed as good a place as any.” His tone is carefully bland and he doesn't feel too guilty about it, not when it's half the truth anyway.

“Never took you for a masochist.” He jeered, without heat. “Melancholic and self-pitying, yes, but not a masochist.” Geralt lifts an eyebrow, half surprised.

“And what the fuck that supposed to mean?” Jaskier rubs at his eyes and looks at him but all he can see are blobs of red and orange dancing in the dark.

“You know what is on the end of this road. _Why_ do you want to go back to Blaviken?” And suddenly Geralt regrets asking, regrets worrying and regrets ever telling the bard of what actually happened.

The pouch on his left pocket seems to know what he's thinking for he swears he can feel it tremble. His medallion twitches.

“I don't know what you are talking about.” His stomach is somewhere near his boots and he hands the first rabbit to the bard staring at the fur caked onto his knife. Jaskier takes it and only speaks again when the rabbit is cooking on a stick.

“Knowing you, I should expect some ridiculous answer such as you wanting to see that your choice was the right one.”

“I never-”

“Sush.” Geralt feels as wrong footed as he did on his way down Kaer Morhen's path so many years ago. He snaps his mouth shut and narrows his eyes. “Your death stare doesn't work on me, never did. Answer me honestly, Geralt. What are you looking for?” His blue eyes move incessantly, getting used to seeing in the dark. They are so blue and earnest that the witcher feels like he can't get enough air.

“I have some atonement to do, before I can stay with you.” It tumbles out like it's not one of the most devastating things he ever said. Jaskier seems to think so too, for he blinks owlishly at him.

“What are you saying?” The fire sizzles and pops, smoke swirling higher. Some birds take flight from a nearby tree. Neither of them moves, but Geralt looks again to his blood covered hands. If he were still capable of retching without first using a shitload of potions, he would have.

“I don't want to talk.”

“I don't think you can have that choice right now, my friend.” Jaskier scoots closer, and takes the knife from his hands. The long fingers are dirtied with red.

“You can't force me.”

“I don't need to.” The bard whispers, face serious as it rarely is. Geralt want to bury himself in the dirt under the fire and never get up again.

Jaskier kneels in front of him, tanned hands on his pale hands, and waits. He doesn’t speak anymore, and he doesn’t move. There is no knowing how much time they spend like that.

“The pouch. The one Borch gave you.” He murmurs, words barely slipping out. “It did. It was... It did make you go away. That's what it was for.” and it's clipped and confusing, but Jaskier hangs onto his every word. “Regis confirmed it for me, and Yen was able to pinpoint intent after she knew what to bypass.” And he stops, like that should be all the explanation he needed to give.

“Geralt that doesn't answer my question. Actually, it only raises more of them.” He says firm but equally as quiet. The pause is a bit shorter this time.

“He gave you an out. He knew I wouldn't be able to leave you well enough alone, so he ensured it I couldn’t get near you.” Jaskier freezes then, unable to fight it anymore.

“He did what.”

“I almost didn’t come back, after Hagge. How could I, if a dragon felt he needed to intervene in your behalf? Maybe you would be better off without me.”

“Thats not true!” Jaskier shout was incensed, and his grip would be bruising in a normal man. Geralt found it grounding.

“I still don't fully believe that, Jaskier. But it has come to my attention that maybe I should let you choose that.” The mumble sounds defeated. “But I can't give you that choice, while I... I can't hold you when I'm still feeling the blood of that day sleeping under my nails. I already pulled you away from too much to sully you with this.”

The bard blinks, incredulous. He moves his hands, holding Geralt's face like a precious baby bird. He waits until pained yellow irises fall on him before speaking.

“You are going on the noble notion that you need to... Be worthy, of...?” Geralt nods, hands limp. His eyes are wide, and the bard would call them frightened, looking back at the memory. “Oh, Geralt. You dumb, moronic lump of a man.” He says with feeling, bends down and they are kissing.

Jaskier wouldn't say it's the most perfect kiss – Geralt takes too long to start responding- or how he envisioned theirs happening -usually at night in front of the fire, yes, but with a lot more alcohol involved-but the witcher is warm and soft and malleable and the night is cold.

They part for a second, and Geralt's eyes have an intensity that could consume him inside and out. Jaskier fervently hopes it does. He dives down, kisses him again and hold his head in place by the hair, trying to make the witcher feel what he won't accept in words. Slowly, Geralt's hands climb up to his waist, and the more they kiss the firmer the hold gets until he is effectively holding on from the bard's single minded focus. 

Jaskier proves that night that you can, as a matter of fact, undo someone only with heartfelt words.

And that witchers can bruise from love too, if he is insistent enough.


	6. Crimson Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! It's over!  
> I admit i didn't expect to have missed writing so much. This was supposed to be a little thing to get the itching away. Now i jut want to write another, and another. So, i suppoe until next one?  
> Thanks for everyone that read it!!!

It isn't quite morning yet, the sky holding that muted kind of violet-grey-blue, dark but not oppressively so, in a way that makes your brain trip over itself trying to understand if your eyes are tired or if you are dreaming.

Jaskier is sitting, knees crossed over the smashed bedrolls, looking over a sleeping Geralt.

There are bruises running up and down his torso, his legs, his arms and Jaskier knows there are similar marks on him too; And that Geralt's would be gone come midday.

He feels sore and no matter how he moves he can feel some group of muscles groaning. He relishes in the pain, in the reminder. Dawn comes slowly, and even slower does the forest comes back alive nearby. Jaskier sits, and he waits.

Geralt wakes uncharacteristically sluggish. His eyes keep focused in the tree's canopies, blinking as if to situate himself. His fingers move one by one, and then his toes wriggle a little too. When his eyes fall on Jaskier's, he smiles, but his forehead furrows in worry. He doesn't seem keen on getting up.

“Sleep well?” The bard rasps.

“Better than you.” He replies, voice soft and low. Jaskier sighs, rubbing the stillness from his face.

“We still have to talk. Don't get me wrong love; My enjoyment last night was very enthusiastic I'm sure, but...”

“Yes.” Geralt seemed thrown from the endearment even after hearing that more times last night than he had breaths. He sat up as well, facing the bard and his expression as open as he knew how to make it. Jaskier took his hand with a tiny smile.

“There was another reason why I didn't wanted to go north.” The witcher grunted, squeezing his hand. “That's not to mean I wasn't worried with your self-sacrificial tendencies, but! There is more to it.”

“...yes?” Geralt encouraged, heart fluttering.

“You know my name is Julian.” A nod with a very confused tint to the corners of his mouth “I come from an Estate between Varlburg and Crinfrid. I ran away when I was nine, with a circus that was passing trough on their way to Mettina.” Geralt blinked and said nothing, face stuck, looking at the ground. “I really, _really_ appreciate if we can _not_ go through there.”

“You ran away?” The witcher whispered, looking back at the very clear blue eyes. Jaskier gave him a self-deprecatory laugh,

“Yeah. I,...I don't want to get too into it, not right now if that's alright. Just. All of us have ghosts on our pasts, Geralt. I don't like to remember mine more than you do, but I have chosen to let go and not let that drag me down. And neither should you, despite the misguided guilt you still carry.”

“It's not misguided. I told you what happened.” He punched out, eyes fixated. Jaskier gave him a shake by their intertwined hands.

“I know what happened, by you, and by anyone else that was stupid enough to speak of that day near me. I still believe in the man I know, more than the butcher created out of fear of someone capable of so much.” Jaskier smiled, warm and fond. His voice was still firm when he dropped it to a whisper “I much prefer the one I’m seeing right now. The one that passed last night with me, and that spent the last twenty years protecting me against myself, even.” Geralt wanted to spill a protest, wanted to tear his hands away and smother the bard for saying such untruthful things but.

But.

His eyes were so blue, Geralt noted. So blue they looked like the runes engraved into his silver blade, so blue they looked like ground sapphire. His cheeks were still red, from the chill of the almost morning and they looked _so_ beautiful.

Geralt knew that he would be blushing -blushing!- if that was a thing his burned capillaries could still do.

“That's not the only time things like that have happened. I have lived a long life.” He mumbled out, but even he could hear how there wasn't any heat or protest in the words. Jaskier gave him a big smile, with big white teeth and a dimple in the right side and Geralt hated how he felt at home looking at that face.

“Then tell me about them, and I can fix them too.” He shrugged his naked shoulders and their exposed freckles seeming to move in the half light. Geralt swallowed, remembering he knew how they tasted. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just breathed, frustrated. The bard leaned forward to peck him on the cheek.

“I know you, Geralt. If you did something you consider to be monstrous, there is more than good reason behind it.” He squeezed the pale hands, getting up and stretching. His knee joints popped and he laughed, carefree. “You can make up a thousand instances where you were a villain, and I would pull up a million where you were the hero.”

“That’s because you embellish everything.” Geralt murmured after a long silence, entranced. His shrunken heart accepted a stuttering rhythm.

“A bit. But with you, I just tell the truth in pretty words.” He winked -!- and went to put the already dying fire out.

Geralt stayed sitting stark naked on the bedroll, stunned and more than a little affected. He would never get used to the easy affection, to the unpaid companionship. To the loyalty, to the love of a man that could have anything, anyone, and yet time and time again choose him. Choose him when he was pushed away and barely knew him; choose him when the hardships of the road were many the rewards were little. Choose him when he shouldn’t, when forgiveness shouldn’t be so easily given.

Choose him, when Geralt wouldn't, when he himself couldn't stand to look down at his stained armor, at his unnaturally pale skin and scarred face.

There was a poetry in it, the witcher could admit; some kind of irony in someone as lively as Jaskier choosing him. The bard wasn't pure, wasn't innocent; He was human, as human as they come, and perhaps by that, better than most. And still.

Still he was right there, patting Roach on her nose and cooing at her as if it were nothing; as if she didn't dislike general touch as much as he did.

The sun rose lazily beyond the trees, catching in the butterflies and bugs waking up. Jaskier was prancing about in his underwear looking right at home in the middle of the woods surrounded by a horse, it's witcher, blood-stained armor and a lute that could do with a bit more polishing.

He didn't believe it, but disregarding the unfolding of events that put them both there was being obtuse in a level not even Geralt could reach. He didn't believe in the things the bard told him, couldn't take them to his heart. But Jaskier could. And he could believe for two for a while yet.

“Are you going to help pick this up or you going to stay there ogling me?” Jaskier said, amused and warm, and impossibly fond. Geralt smiled.

“I quite like the view from here.” The bard turned, eyebrow raised. “Besides... Not like we have someplace else to be, is there? Takes a few days to remake our route.”

“I suppose that's true. Where are we going next?” Jaskier asked, coming closer again. Geralt tilted back, offering up his bared throat. The bard flicked his eyes to it and back to his eyes, hands twitching.

“Wherever you'd like. Just as long we don't get separated.” Jaskier's smile was mirrowed perfectly in Geralt's thin lips.

“Anywhere, then.”


End file.
